Getting Along In Fits And Starts
by grannysknitting
Summary: sometimes the damage done isn't apparent at first - sometimes it's a ticking time bomb


**Getting Along In Fits & Starts**

AN – this story stands alone entirely from any other series I've written for Sherlock BBC. The condition that John develops is one I've had experience with, but I don't call myself an expert.

Warnings – HURT/COMFORT and eventual slash.

**%&%&%&**

If he'd been one for introspection, then the aftermath of the Pool Incident would have been something Sherlock dwelt on at length. He and John woke from the bomb blast in the same hospital room – Mycroft's doing, of course – spent a week or so recovering from the various burns, cuts and concussions that the bomb had caused and went home to recover from the rest. Sarah left John in a spectacular argument three days after that, alleviating Sherlock's boredom for an entire forty-two minutes. Lestrade dropped by three days after that with a pile of cold case files, some of which were mildly interesting and two of which Sherlock solved without leaving the flat.

Mycroft dropped by with a job offer for John, at a twenty four hour walk-in centre in Paddington. John made non committal noises, though Sherlock could see he wanted the job quite a lot. He waited until Mycroft left and then looked at Sherlock, not saying anything but the offer clear never-the-less. If Sherlock was against his colleague taking the job then John would let it slide.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock sighed, scratching at the edge of a bandage, "Of course you should take the job if you want it. I'd recommend waiting for two hours before texting Mycroft your acceptance; it wouldn't do to be too eager."

The smile that instruction got was quite warm. Sherlock spent the next twenty eight minutes analysing it while John watched something called 'QI'. None of it made sense to Sherlock, but John would snigger and shake his head, offering his own answers to the questions as the host asked them. Sherlock was content to remain ignorant, preferring to deconstruct that look entirely in order to fully understand it.

John had insisted that Sherlock not interrupt a show that was being properly watched – in other words, one that John was sitting down and paying sole attention to – so he waited until the host bade his viewers' farewell and then got John's attention by standing in front of him.

"Yes?" the smile was amused this time now. Sherlock considered their positions for a moment and then held out a hand, which John took automatically. How John knew the difference between Sherlock-demanding-something and Sherlock-wanting-to-be-touched was a skill that Sherlock admired quite a lot. He used his grip to tug John up out of his arm chair and over to the couch, wanting to be closer to his flatmate when he delved for answers to his questions.

"I have questions," it was best to be upfront with John straight away, "You have answers."

"Ok," John sounded game, which was confusing. Surely Sherlock should be the one that was daunted by this situation? The sleuth shook that off and focussed entirely on his flatmate, not wanting to miss a single clue.

"Do you love me?" that question had quite a few connotations to it, but it was important to see which one John chose to answer. He'd surprised his flatmate: that was easily apparent, though there was some thinking going on while John considered his response.

"Yes," John replied, not qualifying the sort of love that existed, which Sherlock appreciated. This was hard enough to work out without dealing with well meant misconceptions on John's part as well. He didn't want to hear what John thought he needed – he wanted the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

"Like a family?" Sherlock kept the questions simple, on the theory it would minimise misunderstandings.

"Yes," John seemed to understand that and went along with it, answering what was asked without volunteering more.

"Do you find me attractive?" the next question was risky – John could decide that he was uncomfortable and make a joke of the question, in which case the moment would be lost. Sherlock really wanted to know the answer though – he wanted to know if John was merely a better friend than Sherlock deserved or if there was a possibility that their relationship could develop into the kind that Sherlock had seen others experience. He thought he might like to have a full and complete partnership if John was the other person in it. He didn't do well when he was alone – drugs were a greater temptation, as was risky behaviour. With John at his side, he hadn't so much as glanced at a syringe: even cigarettes had lost some of their appeal.

John looked uncomfortable at the question, shifting on the couch and avoiding Sherlock's eyes. It seemed that he was taking the question seriously and was unsure how his answer was going to be received. Sherlock sat still, not offering any clues as to which answer he wanted to hear.

"Yes," the response was quiet, but determined, "Yes, I find you attractive, Sherlock."

There was that courage that frightened and awed Sherlock in equal amounts. John was so much braver than he was in so many things.

"Would you… would you be my other half?" Sherlock faltered on the question, "Obviously I don't know much about establishing and maintaining a normal relationship, and I don't know if I'll want to have sex with you or anything as you're not my usual type, but I do want to be…"

He floundered to a halt, that sentence having gotten totally away from him. He'd had sex before, quite enthusiastically too. He'd even had the same partner several times in a row before moving on to someone new – he'd just never had a real relationship with someone before. From the expression on John's face it wasn't the done thing to ask someone to enter into a relationship with you on the understanding that sex may not be possible between the two of you. He bit his lip and looked at John quite anxiously, waiting for a response. John looked at him closely for a moment and then reached over and took his hand.

"Mine," John stated simply, squeezing Sherlock's fingers gently. Sherlock slumped against the couch in relief, and then leant over to rest his forehead on John's good shoulder.

"Mine," Sherlock agreed, because they owned each other equally. Mental ability aside, he knew that if they weren't equal in the relationship it wouldn't last. John chuckled and rubbed his cheek in Sherlock's hair, a welcome touch of affection that was quite tolerable.

**%&%&%&**

Things did not change immediately between them. John seemed to be waiting for signals from Sherlock, which the sleuth found simultaneously reassuring and worrisome. Sherlock was unsure about being more intimate with John – he'd always gone for more effeminate men before, or men that were of a body type similar to his own. John was … ordinary and compact. He was understated but quite masculine in his appearance and manner – which was good, but not what Sherlock was used to.

Sherlock got into the habit of sitting with John whenever he could. Sometimes that meant getting John up from his usual armchair and onto the couch, or sometimes it meant squeezing onto whatever seat John was using – Lestrade gave him a very funny look when Sherlock did it the first few times at the Yard. John was warm and smelt nice, which was unexpected. Also, being in contact with John generated feelings – emotions and sensations – that Sherlock had never experienced with his more casual sexual partners.

Just as Sherlock was beginning to get used to the idea of John as a partner – in life as well as in his bed – life intervened once more to disrupt his plans.

Once they'd both recovered fully – John had insisted on an entire twelve days of recuperation once they left the hospital – Lestrade had begun calling them to crime scenes once more. So had several other Yarders – it seemed that Moriarty was quiet and his opposition was taking advantage of that in a sort of turf war that made John alternately furious and sickened. Dimmock worked with them on several cases, becoming less of a nuisance each time he did; even Gregson sent a few cases their way. John had also begun work at his new position – taking a mixture of day and night shifts that worked quite well with Sherlock's schedule.

Their busy work schedule curtailed their more intimate exploration, and then there was a minor influenza outbreak, which kept John busy at the clinic and also determined to keep a bit of distance between them to avoid giving Sherlock any second hand germs. Two cases back to back, squeezed around John's working hours left Sherlock's partner pale and drained looking and Sherlock was certain that John had developed a slight fever when Lestrade called them from their beds only three hours after they first fell into them.

A slight fever was not uncommon when exhaustion and overwork were involved, so Sherlock was not over concerned. John wasn't sick – or if he was it was a minor cold that would resolve itself in the course of a few days. He had been quiet in the taxi, but Sherlock hadn't been in the mood for pointless conversation anyway. He was more focussed on the pictures on his phone of the multiple homicides at their destination – it appeared that one of the victims had committed suicide and that the rest had killed each other.

Wanting to get a clear look once they arrived, Sherlock bounded out of the taxi, passing the fare to John to deal with as usual. He almost went back when he heard the driver prompting John several times to hand over the payment, but John pulled himself together and was on Sherlock's heels once more.

"Hello Freak," Donovan's rote response to his arrival barely registered as he ducked through the tape and strode towards the warehouse that held their crime scene, "You alright Watson?"

That question got Sherlock's attention. John seemed a little… dazed. He nodded in response to Donovan's question and joined Sherlock, standing a little closer than he normally did, as if seeking support. Sherlock would never forgive himself for moving away, intent on getting to the scene before Anderson could completely destroy it.

John was quiet as Sherlock combed the scene, discussing his findings with Lestrade and taunting Anderson as he usually did. The forensic scientist fell for it as he always did and Sherlock turned to share his glee with John in time to see him shiver.

"John?" Sherlock asked, not sure why he was so concerned, except that the shiver had been quite hard and the warehouse wasn't that cold.

"John?" Lestrade echoed as the shiver became a shake and then Lestrade was cursing and leaping and lowering John to the floor, "Sherlock, give me your coat!"

He had a hand under John's head, but Sherlock couldn't do anything other than stare in shock as John went into a full seizure. Sherlock had been an addict – he knew what seizures looked like – but the sight of John jerking and thrashing unconsciously, his breathing laboured and irregular as his body moved totally beyond all control was almost unreal. Anderson grabbed Sherlock's arms and wrestled the coat off, folding it quickly and freeing Lestrade's hand from under John's head, replacing it with the coat.

"I didn't know he was prone to seizures," Anderson said as Donovan used her radio to call an ambulance to their location.

"He's not," Sherlock's voice was cold and distant, "This has never happened before."

The person thrashing on the floor was not John – John didn't make those noises or movements. As they watched the movements slowed, became smaller, and then tapered off altogether. A final, long shiver ran through the compact body and then it was still. Lestrade slipped his fingers over John's pulse point for a moment and then moved to roll him onto his side into the recovery position. Sherlock moved as well, coming to kneel on the cold hard floor and take John's lax hand in his. It didn't feel like John's hand – John's hand was warm and strong and capable, not cold and loose. There was no answering pressure – John always squeezed slightly in response when Sherlock took his hand or vice versa.

There was another seizure before the ambulance arrived, a smaller one that lasted only eight seconds. It was over almost before they realised it was happening and moved him onto his back once more. Sherlock could not quite comprehend what was happening – why was this happening now? The army would never have taken John if he was prone to seizures… had Moriarty something to do with this, or perhaps one of his rivals?

Lestrade had to pull Sherlock away as the paramedics stabilised John and loaded him onto the ambulance. Sherlock insisted on covering John with his coat and climbing in to recapture the hand he'd been holding before. When questioned, he'd barked 'he's my partner' at the woman, who had nodded and finished hooking John up to various monitors.

There was a long shiver as they headed for the hospital, which made the monitors beep in a very disturbing fashion, and then they were pulling up outside the emergency room and the doors were opening to reveal Mycroft.

Sherlock had never been so relieved to see his elder brother in his life. With Mycroft came the best doctors, equipment and care that could be found, which John so dearly needed right now. Sherlock climbed out, steadying the stretcher and running beside it as it was wheeled into the hospital. Part of Sherlock registered that they were at a private hospital, which John couldn't afford. That didn't matter, though because Sherlock could and would pay whatever bills were needed to see John healthy once more.

The doctors insisted on Sherlock leaving the treatment room, which he did only because he didn't want to delay finding out what was wrong with John and making it better. A nurse came and asked pointless and stupid questions – Sherlock told her about the slight fever and exhaustion due to workload and was startled when Mycroft added that John had suffered a concussion recently. The moment the nurse was gone, Sherlock rounded on his brother, fury in his eyes.

"John is not brain damaged," he hissed, "I won't have it."

"Now Sherlock," Mycroft appeased, holding up a hand, "That is not something you are able to diagnose."

"He's been normal, completely normal. He's as sharp as he usually is – his personality is intact," Sherlock refuted, "His co ordination is as normal, as is his stamina and strength."

"Be that as it may," Mycroft said firmly, "He was involved in an explosion only two months ago. It would be remiss of me not to give that information to his doctors. Indeed, they have his full medical history in there as we speak – I had my assistant provide them with a copy."

Sherlock pursed his lips angrily but knew there was no point in arguing with that tone from Mycroft. His brother would not listen to his insistence that John had been perfectly alright these last few days. He would not believe that John was only ill – it was flu or something. Brain damage was completely unacceptable – to both of them.

**%&%&%&**

Mycroft had watched the tentative beginnings of Sherlock's physical relationship with Dr Watson with some misgivings. Sherlock didn't trust easily or well and Mycroft knew his brother well enough to recognise that there was more to Sherlock's actions than simple infatuation. When his little brother finally lost interest in Watson, or ran him off, it would be up to Mycroft to pick up the pieces once more.

However, Mycroft was beginning to wonder if he had been mistaken when his people had alerted him to Watson's sudden and completely unexpected seizure at a crime scene. Mycroft had long ago arranged protocols for his brother and his brothers little friend. It was a moment's work to activate them, diverting an ambulance from the fleet of private ambulances he controlled, preparing a private hospital for their arrival and ensuring that the top neurologists as well as several other eminent physicians were in place to treat whatever had gone wrong.

He had not been prepared for his first glimpse of his little brother. Sherlock had been on the verge of panic, subtle though it was, clutching his Dr Watson's unresponsive hand and running beside him as the doctors ushered them into the treatment rooms. His coat – which had clearly been thrown on the floor at one point to cushion Watson's head – was spread like a shield over the unconscious mans form. It had taken some persuasion to part the two, and Sherlock's vehement – if pointless – denial of possible brain damage had told Mycroft that his brother at least was deeply invested in Watson's continued well being.

While they waited – through tests and scans and another seizure that had Sherlock actually standing closer to Mycroft for comfort, something that was almost unprecedented – Mycroft wondered if it was possible that there was more to John Watson than his records indicated. It did seem that Sherlock's infatuation was deep and appeared to be stable, but Mycroft began to realise that John returned the emotion – that Sherlock had a sense of reciprocation in the relationship. This was slightly perplexing as Watson was not Sherlock's usual type. Sherlock was most often attracted to men that were of a type with himself, or at least more effeminate than himself. John was shorter, stockier and undoubtedly masculine, not at all Sherlock's usual type. Mycroft had plenty of surveillance pictures of the two of them holding hands or sitting close together, but he knew that Sherlock had yet to take John to bed – the change in Sherlock's behaviour after such an event would have been impossible to mistake.

Yet here his brother was, sitting beside Watson's bed, holding a hand and watching him with an intensity that Mycroft hadn't seen directed at a living person in years. His little brother's coat was once more covering the man in the bed, spread like armour to protect the unconscious man. Sherlock had refused to listen to diagnosis from anyone other than the man in the bed and Mycroft had discretely sent the doctors from the room. When his little brother got into this sort of mood he was nigh impossible to deal with – whatever had his focus was the only thing he would spare attention for.

So Mycroft found himself waiting with Sherlock, watching as the boy fretted and fidgeted beside the unresponsive Watson, fussing with covers and medical sensors until all was arranged to his satisfaction. In the three hours since the last seizure, the doctors had identified and rectified low blood sugar, mild dehydration and a low grade fever, which was apparently resolving on its own. The monitors showed a regular, strong heartbeat, at exactly the rate it should be for an unconscious man; along with normal blood pressure and other such rhythms that Mycroft didn't bother to place into context. Sherlock was monitoring them closely enough for the both of them, anyway.

The monitor showed a change and Sherlock leaned forward anxiously, his eyes on John's face. In a matter of moments the other mans eyelashes fluttered and he opened his eyes, blinking in confusion and then looking to the left where Sherlock was clutching his hand. Recognition lit the brown eyes, followed by an expression of affection and reassurance that was so clear and strong that Mycroft was surprised.

"Sh'l'k," John slurred, frowned a moment and cleared his throat. He accepted the water that Sherlock held for him, clearing his throat with a cough and trying again, "What hit me?"

"How do you feel?" Sherlock asked in a quiet voice, tension in his tone. Mycroft noted that John's hand tightened in his brother's grip, offering comfort even as the man in the bed tried to work out why he was in hospital once more.

"As if I've strained a muscle or two," John admitted, "Did I fall over something? Did we have a case? I remember we were in a taxi…"

"Yes," Sherlock said in a low voice, "We had a case and took a taxi there. Once we were at the scene…"

He choked and looked away, clearly reliving the sight. Mycroft cursed the family trait for eidetic memory – to think of something was to relive it, and this was not a memory that he wanted his little brother reliving for the rest of his life. Before Mycroft could do or say anything, John rolled up onto one elbow, wincing as he did, and laid a hand on Sherlock's curly head, the fingers hooking in among the black curls and tugging.

"Shh, it's ok now," John offered a crooked smile to his little brother, letting go and lying down again as his muscles protested the movement. Sherlock made a soft noise and simply climbed up onto the bed, pressing along John's side. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in complete shock – he'd never thought his brother would forget himself in public in this way: evidently John Watson had his hooks deeper into Sherlock than Mycroft had thought.

"You had a seizure – a major one. Then another while we were waiting for the ambulance and a third one here," Sherlock's voice was muffled, "Mycroft says you're brain damaged."

"If I'm having seizures the chances are that he's right," John sounded remarkably self possessed for a man who'd just had a dire diagnosis handed to him. Sherlock made a sound of denial, which earned him an absent minded kiss to the forehead and a gentle hand carding through tangled locks, "Pass me my chart, would you?"

Sherlock made no effort to move and John remained still as well except for the hand that was soothing Mycroft's little brother with its repetitive touch. The eldest Holmes spent a moment admiring the effort that must have gone into teaching the youngest Holmes that such a touch was Good – not meant to be controlling or dominating, but simply an offer of comfort and affection. Sherlock had mistrusted comfort and affection for so long that it was astonishing to see him accept it without a qualm now.

"Mycroft," John's voice had a reminding tone to it, "Hand me my chart, please."

Mycroft was surprised that John had known he was in the room – Sherlock had spoken of him but not looked in his direction since John awoke – but controlled the reaction out of habit. The chart was at the foot of the bed, bristling with scan results and films, abandoned hastily when Sherlock had chased any doctor that was not Watson out of the room. He passed the thing to John, who dropped it on his chest and separated the films from the paperwork, putting them aside and propping the file up so he could read it. Sherlock turned his head too, reading along with John, though it wasn't likely that his little brother understood the terms there to the same degree as John did.

John made a non committal sound at the end and then held the films up to the light, squinting at them for a long moment, moving his hand in and out to give himself better focus. When he'd looked the scans over carefully as well he dropped them back onto his abdomen and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with fore finger and thumb.

"What does it say?" Sherlock's voice was small and frightened in a way that Mycroft only heard when things were at their worst for his little brother. In a way, he supposed that was the case now – after all Sherlock had become quite attached to John Watson.

"Epilepsy," John said tiredly, "It's not common, but sometimes a patient who has had a blow to the head – a certain part of the head – can incur a form of epilepsy. It's manageable with drugs and lifestyle changes. Further blows to the head can worsen the condition, make it unmanageable."

"Not brain damage?" Sherlock sounded confused and John smiled, tucking his cheek into the curls and rubbing against them gently.

"A form of brain damage," he clarified, "One that makes the patient prone to seizures when overtired, unwell or under an enormous amount of strain. There could be external triggers as well, but that will need to be verified through tests. Hospital tests, Sherlock, not an experiment."

Mycroft thought it wise to make that distinction, lest Sherlock decide that he needed to test how many ways he could cause a seizure, in order to guard against them in the future. Sherlock was still, thinking rapidly about what John had said and the implications for their future together. Mycroft made a mental note – and sent a text to his assistant – to ensure that the contingency plans for Sherlock's break-up with Dr Watson were up to date and fully ready.

He had a feeling they'd be needed soon.

**%&%&%&**

Once the doctors discovered that John was awake and aware, they flooded the room. Mycroft watched with no little amusement as Sherlock simply ignored them, treating the intrusion as if it wasn't happening. He would have gotten away with it too, if one of the doctors hadn't insisted on touching John. Then Mycroft's little brother was all snarls and darting hands, slapping away the unwanted touches with the accuracy of an enraged cat defending its young.

Just before Mycroft could intervene – hospital security and force had been mentioned – John spoke up, or rather, turned his head and murmured in Sherlock's ear. What was shocking was that Sherlock actually seemed to have _listened_ to what was whispered, because he stopped his offence against the foreign doctors and allowed the one that John summoned over to conduct a basic examination. Mycroft tuned out the lecture that followed, which was a reiteration of John's diagnosis as well as a preliminary treatment plan, preferring instead to catch up on his emails and memos. Family emergencies took up _so_ much time and energy, Mycroft was glad that they didn't occur all that often – for all his devil-may-care attitude, Sherlock was not all that prone to injury or illness, unless it was self-inflicted.

Then the doctors were gone, with a promise of scheduling more tests and trials for medication. They had collected and reassembled their patient chart, which was now gone with them and John seemed to be drowsing under the weight of his flatmate, who was pressed close and fussing with the covers a little. Mycroft wondered if he would be able to leave them for a few minutes – he did have an urgent call to make in regards to a very sensitive matter – while they slept and recuperated together.

"So this crime scene," John's voice broke the silence, "It was a multiple homicide, right? I think I recall you mentioning that."

"Yes, but one of the deceased had killed themselves," Sherlock confirmed, sounding completely disinterested, "We weren't there long enough for me to gather any data."

"Mmn," John replied. Mycroft wondered if the other man could hear beneath the tone Sherlock had used: if he knew how much Sherlock wanted to solve the crime that the current situation had interrupted. Now that his little brother was reassured as to Watson's continuing existence – though their future working relationship was in some doubt – Sherlock's mind was once more turned towards the puzzle and his almost compulsive need to solve it.

Once more, silence stretched over the room. Just as Mycroft made his mind up to slip outside and make a quick call, John spoke one more time, taking the hand that had been twined in Sherlock's hair out and running it down the length of Sherlock's back.

"Go on then," Watson surprised Mycroft with the words, and also the indulgent tone of voice, "Off you go. I want to hear all about it – every single brilliant deduction and every single detail."

"I don't want to," Sherlock protested unconvincingly, "What if…"

"What if nothing, Sherlock," John interrupted, "Go and be fantastic."

The doctor slapped Sherlock lightly on the derrière aire, which astonished Mycroft. His little brother _blushed_ which was unprecedented in his presence. Sherlock kissed John's mouth lightly and squirmed off the bed, straightening the covers and his coat fastidiously over John before rummaging around and locating the doctors own coat. Mycroft was mildly surprised that it had survived the removal process – nurses and orderlies were notoriously scissor happy when it came to removing patients' clothes in an emergency. He was even more surprised when Sherlock put his flatmates coat on, shrugging into it and bundling his hands into the pockets.

"I'll be back soon," Sherlock promised, "Do you want Mycroft?"

"Not really," the words were honest. Mycroft was taken aback that his little brother would admit – in a roundabout way – that his presence was useful at times. Pleased that he would not be forced to feign concern and worry at Watson's bedside in Sherlock's absence, he gathered his things, walking to the door with Sherlock. His little brother seemed rather _vulnerable_, dressed in a jacket that was too short, too broad in the shoulders and lacking in flair. Sherlock glanced back at the man drowsing in the bed, biting his lip for a moment and then heading for the exit with his head held high.

Mycroft had no doubt that Sherlock would solve whatever case he'd been investigating in record time, in order to return to his favourite audience and delight the man with his brilliance.

Genius loved an audience – Sherlock was the living embodiment of that axiom at times. Not that John's role as an audience would be enough to save their relationship now that the doctor was on the sidelines – possibly for good.

**%&%&%&**

Lestrade's expression when Sherlock turned up at the Yard – a full day after his aborted visit to the DI's newest crime scene – was one that John would have appreciated. The thought stuck in a corner of Sherlock's mind, reminding him that his partner was not at his side, which further served to remind him why John wasn't there and where he was instead. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't currently been swamped in John's coat – and thus his scent – there was a good chance that absolutely no work would ever be done on the case at all.

"How is he?" Lestrade didn't need to elaborate and Sherlock didn't need to deduce the 'he' in question. The DI had been coming up from the file rooms; a bundle of folders tucked under one arm: they'd fallen into step together as they headed back towards Lestrade's corner of the Yard.

"Epilepsy brought on by brain damage from the pool," if John could be matter of fact and accepting of the diagnosis, so could Sherlock. Lestrade looked appalled and didn't try to disguise the fact – Sherlock knew that John and the DI had become friends of a sort in the last few months.

"How bad… never mind. It sounds pretty bad. I suppose the doctors are still testing and things to work out how to treat him? Will he ever be able to return to working in the field with you?" Lestrade ushered Sherlock into the break room and stuffed him into a chair. Sherlock watched as Lestrade made tea, pondering the question. He hadn't really thought about it yet, because that meant contemplating the possibility that John would not be able to take his usual role at Sherlock's side ever again.

"I don't know. We only just got the diagnosis. They haven't run any tests yet. John mentioned management through medication and lifestyle but how that will impact on our work…" Sherlock sighed and accepted the tea handed to him, suddenly unutterably weary. All at once the future of the little agency that he and John had been building was in doubt and with it their intimate life as well. He had too many questions and not enough data.

"The case, Lestrade," Sherlock decided, "Let us focus on the case. Until we have more data from John, speculation is pointless."

"From John, huh?" was the somewhat surprising response from the DI. Of course Watson was the man to listen to – he was a doctor and knew his own body better than anyone else could. Sherlock trusted John's opinion over all others – in many areas.

Lestrade at least had the intelligence to sense that Sherlock was serious in his demand for information, because he pushed the stack of files he'd been carrying over for Sherlock's perusal. They turned out to be crime scene reports and witness statements – people who'd heard the noise and reported it mostly – as well as background information on several of the victims that has been identified.

"You were right about the suicide," Lestrade mentioned redundantly, "And we're having trouble identifying the last two victims."

Sherlock had not done more than glance at faces, more interested in their wounds and positions in relation to each other and the blood splatter on the walls, floor and ceiling. Now he took a moment to compare the last two photos to his mental rogue's gallery.

After a moment he sat back in disgust. All of the deceased had been identified by him as lower lieutenants in Moriarty's network. Obviously they had displeased their master and been set up for massacre – or this was another attempt to get Sherlock to come out and play.

"The victims were all part of Moriarty's network," Sherlock announced flatly, "And that ends my involvement in this investigation. I will not dance with the devil for sport, Lestrade. You'd do well to kick this over to the organised crime unit."

"I can't do that if I can't prove they're member of organised crime," Lestrade said patiently, "You know that Sherlock."

"Very well," Sherlock drained his almost adequate tea and stood, "I need your computer."

The sooner he got the information sorted for Lestrade the sooner he could go back to the hospital and John. The DI didn't protest at Sherlock's proposed hijacking of his office, which showed that the man probably pitied him and John for their new situation. It irked Sherlock; John would not let this slow him down and Sherlock was certainly going to ensure that John maintained a proper lifestyle conducive to good health. After all, good health meant that he was working at Sherlock's side which was right where he belonged. As John was the responsibly boring of the two of them, Sherlock was sure that they would soon master his condition and relegate it to the background where it belonged.

It did not take long for Sherlock to tie the victims of the 'crime' – because he was sure that even John would agree that criminals killing criminals was a civic improvement programme – to several failed attempts at various other crimes. Everything from fraud to robbery to extortion was present, which meant that Moriarty was probably just cleaning house. Sherlock presented this data to Lestrade, with the added comment that his involvement with the case was done.

"But Sherlock, surely you want to see this through to the end?" Lestrade sounded flabbergasted. Normally Sherlock would want to see this through to the end – there was every chance that Moriarty was starting another 'game' designed to get Sherlock's attention. The master criminal was out of luck though – John was Sherlock's sole priority at this time, not any petty problems Moriarty decided to throw his way. It was surprising the way a major health scare could refocus ones priorities.

"I've got more important things to do, Lestrade," Sherlock replied impatiently, "I'm certain this task is not too difficult for you to complete."

He swept from the DI's office, darting past Donovan and Anderson before they could accost him about John. It took him longer than he'd have liked to get a taxi and he fidgeted through the entire ride, even as he directed the driver the fastest way.

John was asleep when he arrived, which Sherlock found a little disappointing. He thought better of waking him though, remembering that a supportive significant other would allow the doctor to sleep and recover. Sherlock climbed up into the bed as well, arranging himself carefully against John's side. His partner sighed and turned his head into Sherlock's curls. The unconscious gesture warmed Sherlock's heart, allowing him to relax enough to actually fall asleep.

**%&%&%&**

Mycroft stepped in once more, ensuring that John's tests and results were top priority in the hospital. Sherlock was grateful for the interference, though John was not convinced that he warranted such treatment. For Sherlock's sake, he swallowed his concerns, submitting to the many tests and treatments with patience and calm. Sherlock had the results before the consultants did, insisting on going through them with John and mapping out a management plan with his partner. John was determined that the epilepsy wouldn't prevent him from joining Sherlock in his work, though he insisted that Sherlock be aware of possible triggers for the fits. It was a sensible precaution, one that Sherlock approved of wholeheartedly.

John insisted that Sherlock return to Baker Street before he was discharged to ensure it was ready for his return. Sherlock took the opportunity to bathe and change, which is what he suspected that John meant. His partner was far too polite to tell Sherlock that he smelled or that his clothes were a mess after all the effort that Sherlock had put into caring for him.

"Sherlock dear, how is John?" Mrs Hudson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him and Sherlock took a moment to brief her on John's medical condition with strict instructions on things to avoid and watch out for.

"I'm bringing him home today," Sherlock finished, "He's tired, but he'll be alright."

"I'm sure you'll take good care of him, dear. Just call me if you need anything," Mrs Hudson patted his arm, "I'll make some dinner for the two of you, but just this once, alright?"

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," Sherlock swept towards the front door, "We'll be home by seven at the latest."

The taxi ride was interminable, but John was sitting on his bed, dressed and ready to go. The smile on his face was only for Sherlock, and Sherlock knew that he had an equally emotional expression on his own face.

"We've got to wait for the final discharge debrief, but then I'll be ready to go," John said lightly, "Though I was ready to go the moment I woke up."

Sherlock nodded, sitting closely on the bed and taking John's hand. His coat was on the bed beside John, carefully brushed and folded neatly.

"You look quite odd in that coat of mine," John plucked at the side of the jacket that Sherlock was wearing, "Wouldn't you feel better wearing your own?"

Sherlock shook his head and leaned lightly against John. Normally he leaned as hard as he liked, but John seemed more fragile to Sherlock at the moment. John shrugged and dropped the subject, leaning back against Sherlock companionably. They waited in peaceful silence for a few minutes – which was only as long as Sherlock's attention span – before the doctor came in and alleviated Sherlock's boredom.

He didn't say anything that John hadn't already told Sherlock, but he also didn't address a very important question.

"What about sex?" Sherlock interrupted, and John groaned, hanging his head and shaking it.

"Sherlock, I could have answered that one at home," John mumbled his ears red with embarrassment. Sherlock tutted and folded his arms with impunity.

"I want a second opinion," Sherlock informed him, "You're far too nice to me, John. How do I know you won't give in just to make me happy?"

"Because having a fit during sex tends to ruin the moment," John retorted, at which point his doctor cleared his throat delicately.

"Sex is fine, as long as you avoid the triggers I've already outlined," the man said firmly. John sniffed in an 'I told you so' manner, but allowed Sherlock to collect the paperwork and prescriptions that his partner required before putting Sherlock's coat on – it swamped him in a way that was manly, not adorable, not at all – and allowing Sherlock to usher him out the door.

Sherlock was of two minds about accepting Mycroft's lift – the car was waiting as they exited the hospital – but John was not at all disinclined to be rude.

"He's done a lot for us, Sherlock," John murmured as the door opened and slid inside easily. Sherlock crowded after him, winding an arm around John's waist possessively. John leaned into his side easily, not at all embarrassed to be affectionate with Sherlock in front of his brother. That little acceptance lessened Sherlock's resentment of his brother.

"Mycroft, I wanted to thank you for your help," John said with quiet dignity, "And for prioritising my care."

"I know you dislike jumping to the front of the queue," Mycroft replied with a smug look that Sherlock didn't appreciate, "However; I judged that in this case it would do no good for Sherlock to wait for the results."

Which meant that he'd only done it for Sherlock's sake, which also meant that John was merely another chip on the game board for Mycroft to manipulate in his quest to control Sherlock's life. Sherlock scowled and opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but John put a hand on his knee, squeezing gently. He gave Sherlock a long look, which was easy to interpret: John believed that Mycroft was attempting to get a reaction out of them, which John was not about to give. Sherlock huffed and turned his head, resting his forehead against John and leaning closer to his partner.

"I've taken the liberty of suspending your driving licence, John, I hope you don't mind," Mycroft added, "It wouldn't do to break the law after all and I believe that you need to have been seizure free for at least a year."

"Yes," John agreed evenly, his body not even tensing at this latest interference, "Because Sherlock and I are such law abiding citizens."

"Indeed," Mycroft said dryly, the irony bouncing right off him. Sherlock smiled, the expression hidden in John's hair. Mycroft said nothing more as the car pulled up and Sherlock threw the door open with alacrity, ushering John out without bothering to say goodbye to his brother and not waiting for John to complete his well mannered leave taking either.

Mrs Hudson was waiting in the door way and Sherlock fidgeted as John let her fold him into a hug and fuss over him for a bit.

"I'll have your dinner ready in just a moment boys. Why don't you go upstairs and get comfortable," she straightened the lapels of the coat that John was wearing fondly, "You do look adorable in John's coat, Sherlock."

John laughed and kissed her cheek before collecting Sherlock's hand and tugging him up the stairs.

"I'll enjoy getting him out of it," he called over his shoulder, tipping their landlady a saucy wink, to which she laughed and headed back to her kitchen.

"Don't tease," Sherlock grumbled as John shut the door behind them.

"I wasn't," John replied and then kissed Sherlock, pressing warmly against him, "You're the one who wanted sex."

Sherlock moaned and gave in, relishing the feeling of John against him, healthy and strong. He co-operated in a daze as John slipped his jacket off and twined his arms around Sherlock's waist. Footsteps on the stairs made John pull back with a reluctant sigh, pressing a final kiss to Sherlock's mouth before stepping fully away.

"Dinner," John said firmly, "Then desert."

Sherlock growled but tidied his clothes – he had no intention of embarrassing John in front of their landlady. As he opened the door for her, John hung both of their coats up and went looking for cutlery.

"Did you solve that case?" he called from the kitchen, "You can tell me about it over dinner."

**%&%&%&**

**Epilogue**

John looked up as Sherlock clattered up the stairs. In the three months since his diagnosis, Sherlock had been less interested in taking cases and more interested in taking care of John. His partner had only taken one or two cases, mostly when he was convinced that Lestrade would be completely unable to cope. The consulting detective had even turned down a case that had Moriarty's signature all over it.

John was hoping that Sherlock had turned the case down because he was trying to distance himself from the master criminal and not because he felt John was too weak to withstand a tussle with his arch rival.

If there had been one upside to the whole situation, it was that their physical relationship had taken off spectacularly. Sherlock's initial statement that they may be sexually incompatible at the start of their relationship had been daunting. Had John loved the man less, he would never have agreed to try a relationship with the man. Sherlock had shown that he was not averse to touching John, but their relationship in the bedroom had been only about cuddling.

John's unexpected trip to the hospital changed things. As if a switch had been flipped, Sherlock went from seeing John as a partner to a lover. While John would have preferred to avoid the whole life long medical condition issue, he wasn't displeased with the results. His sex life had certainly become a very active and varied since their return from the hospital.

"Hello," John greeted as his lover barrelled through the door. Sherlock beamed at him and threw himself onto the couch, pinning John down for a thorough kiss. He also did a quick neurological check before peeling himself off and going to hang up his coat. John had become accustomed to such quick checks over the last three months, especially once he'd returned to work. Sherlock didn't like them spending time apart and had made a point of checking John's health whenever they were reunited.

"I have something for you," Sherlock announced, "I had it made bespoke."

"Oh?" John grinned up at the man blanketing him. Sherlock grinned back, making himself comfortable as was his wont. John slipped a hand into the mans back pocket, enjoying the way Sherlock squirmed at the touch.

"Stop that," Sherlock frowned, though there wasn't much conviction in his tone, "This is serious."

"Mmmhmm," John replied, rubbing the cheek his hand was resting on. Sherlock reached back and captured John's hand, bringing it around to rest on John's chest. John watched as Sherlock pulled a cloth bag from his suit jacket and tipped its contents onto John's chest. Before he had a chance to properly examine the metal object on his chest, Sherlock had shaken it out and clasped it around John's wrist.

"It's a med alert tag," Sherlock explained, smoothing the metal onto John's wrist with his long fingers, "But I don't like the usual designs on them, so I had a past client design one for you. It's much better suited to you than the generic ones available."

John spent a moment looking at the silver rope-like braid on his wrist with its tag. Then he reached up to thank Sherlock in the traditional manner.

And if his lovers hand tangled around the gift in the height of their passion, neither of them minded too much.

**End**

Disclaimer – setting and characters as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.


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